Hold my breath until I'm honest

Will I ever breathe again?


The combined council, advisors to both King Aegon VI and Queen Arya, had crowded together in the usual chamber, but thus far, all they'd managed to do was glare at one another, toss accusations, and grumble under their breaths. Winterfell's castellan could not keep his seat as his agitation increased with each passing minute, and he paced before the crackling hearth. His brow was creased with a combination of his worry and consternation. He'd managed to refrain from threats and insults, but as the hour grew later, it became more difficult to remain calm.

Jon ceased his pacing and turned, staring across the table at Aegon's Hand, who, like him, found he could not keep his seat. Instead, he stood on the opposite side of the room, his one fist clenched, a deep scowl etched upon his face.

"Lord Connington," Jon began, his voice uncannily low and steady, "if any harm has befallen my sister, neither you nor your king will live to see another dawn."

The Hand scoffed. "That girl was seen leaving the castle with Valyrian steel strapped to her back and hip! Do you think I don't know her reputation? Those blades are no mere decorations for her." His voice was shaded with acid as he spoke. "If anyone has just cause to worry for the safety of his monarch, it is I, Snow, not you. And if Aegon comes to harm by your sister's hand, we will not hesitate to unleash the might of the dragons against your castle."

The Greatjon shot up at the threat, his countenance as dark and menacing as an approaching winter storm. Seeing this caused Tyrion to clear his throat and begin speaking in a measured tone. "My lords," said the dwarf, "let us not quarrel until we know there is something worth quarreling over." His eyes held a silent plea for peace as they traveled around the room before settling on the looming lord of the Last Hearth.

"Our queen being abducted on dragonback by an Essosi invader is worth a quarrel!" Lord Umber shouted, becoming red-faced as he did.

Hoster Blackwood interceded. "I hardly think 'abducted' is an apt…"

"Aegon Targaryen is no Essosi invader," Connington spat at the Greatjon, interrupting the queen's Hand. "He is the blood of the dragon, and the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. You will show him the respect he deserves when you speak of him, Northman!" The man's voice grew harsher and louder with each successive statement.

"I don't give a drunkard's piss if he's the blood of Rhaegar and the new gods and the sealord combined," the Greatjon retorted. "He's no king of mine, he holds no authority here, and if he's so much as made Queen Arya frown, I'll geld him and feed him his own cock and balls for his supper!"

"Mind your tongue, Umber," Duck growled, stepping forward from where he stood beside the chamber door, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, "or I'll remove it."

"Oh, Ser Nobody from Nowhere speaks, does he?" the Greatjon laughed gruffly. "I'd like to see you try it, boy."

"Please, my lords," Lord Hoster entreated, "let us remember ourselves and strive for patience, as I am sure both the king and queen would urge us, were they here to do so. I'm certain they will soon return to the castle. Then we can all have supper and laugh about their little… misadventure."

A quick glance around the room was enough to demonstrate to even the casual observer that no man present was like to find any amusement in the situation, at supper or otherwise.

Ser Brynden looked keenly at Lord Tyrion and Lord Connington in turn. "What is it you hope to gain by holding our queen hostage, my lords? You have been treated as guests here. This is no way to secure an alliance."

"An alliance?" the old griffin snorted. He raised one brow, eyeing the heir to Raventree Hall as though he were little better than a bit of muck stuck to the toe of his boot. "With a company of rebels?"

Tyrion cleared his throat. "It will not do to escalate the situation with hysterics, Ser Brynden…"

"Hysterics," the knight seethed.

"You cannot accuse Aegon of taking your queen hostage when you know very well the king desires a betrothal."

"Does he desire it enough to force the matter?" Ser Brynden questioned pointedly. "Perhaps by taking the queen hostage and threatening her realm with dragonflame until she agrees to the match?"

"You misjudge him, ser," Haldon said softly. "Aegon Targaryen is a man of honor."

The Blackwood heir replied, "For the queen's sake, I hope you are right."

"For the queen's sake? For his sake, you mean!" the Greatjon barked. "Hope. Honor? Bah!" He looked at Jon Snow then. "I say we start cutting throats and throw their carcasses to the direwolves to feast on until the queen is returned!"

Tyrion's eyes searched out his brother's. "Jaime," he said, "can you not make them see reason?"

The Kingslayer shrugged. "How? Nothing about this situation is reasonable."

"Oh, no, never in the history of the realm have two young people acted rashly for their own amusement," said the dwarf, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "And dragons are so commonplace that the queen could not possibly have been tempted to ride one of her own free will."

Jon cleared his throat. "I do not deny that my sister can be… careless when it comes to her own safety, and she would most certainly be eager to ride a dragon, if given the chance…"

"She was given the chance, there's no question," Ser Jaime said bitterly. "I saw it myself."

Jon nodded once at the Lord Commander, then continued, "…but none of that changes the fact of who will be to blame if she has been injured, or worse." His voice became hoarse at the end, as though it were hard to force the words out.

"Lord Snow," Tyrion said gently, "the king has no ill intent toward your sister, I can promise you that. He would never purposely hurt her."

Jon's mouth curved down as his brow creased. "Perhaps not, my lord, but your king's intent matters little to me. My sister's safety is my only concern, and if she has come to harm, there is no question who will bear the blame for it. Or what the consequences will be."

Lord Connington's eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared dangerously at the pronouncement, but before he could respond, the door to the chamber flew open and Ser Podrick burst into the room.

"My lords," he panted, dark hair plastered to his forehead, "they've been spotted. Rhaegal flew over the castle only moments ago, with both the king and the queen on his back. Lady Brienne and Ser Gendry have ridden out with the kingsguard to the dragon's nest to bring them back."

All the men stood abruptly, scrambling to the door so they might make their way to the gate to assess the health of their respective ruler for themselves. Only Jaime and Tyrion hung back.


The door to the council chamber closed, leaving the Lannister brothers in one another's sole company for the first time since the night Jaime had helped Tyrion escape the black cells and told him the truth about Tysha. The resulting anger and hurt had led Tyrion to reveal what he knew of Cersei and her bedpartners. The stinging admissions had sent both their lives skittering down new and harrowing paths that had somehow led them both to this exact moment.

Jaime's eyes surveyed the chairs around the table, all pushed back, and some toppled haphazardly. He heaved a sigh at the sight. After a moment, he tilted his head and regarded Tyrion, a sly look on his handsome face.

"It would not have been politic to say it with Lord Snow and Lord Connington as riled as they were, but it's even money as to which of the young fools was more likely to have been held hostage by the other," Jaime said with a smirk.

Tyrion sniffed then shook his head. "No one was held hostage. It is perhaps not politic for me to say it to a member of the queen's council, but that boy was half in love with just the idea of Arya Stark before he ever laid eyes on her." That it had been Tyrion's own murmurings which had planted the seed for that love, over campfires in Volantis and Dorne, in Essosi manses and Westerosi castles, under the moonlight which shone upon the deck of a ship sailing across the Narrow sea, was something he did not mention. The betrothal may have been brokered by the assassin devotees of a death god, funded by a Pentoshi magister, and even agreed to by the king himself, but it was Tyrion who had fed the boy's craving and breathed life into his desire.

"Boy? Aegon Targaryen is a man grown, a battle tested warrior and a king." The golden knight's amused look had vanished like a ghost into the mist. His new expression conveyed displeasure, though after a second or two, it softened, tempered by an unmistakable tenderness. "And she…"

"Don't tell me she's innocent," Tyrion snorted. "She slew dozens at Riverrun and the Twins! I'm convinced she picked a fight with the Boltons just to have cause to take their heads in their own home!"

"That was Ramsay's doing," Jaime retorted. His tone, and even his posture, marked him as defensive. "But no, she's not innocent. Not in that way. And yet, she is. In some ways, she is." He drew in a breath and released it slowly.

"A woman of contradictions, then?"

The Kingslayer frowned. "You have no idea…"

"Then give me an idea. I'd… like to understand her."

Jaime's look was wary. The dwarf moved to where his brother stood, then righted the chair nearest him and sat, waiting for the knight to join him. He did, after only the slightest hesitation.

"Understanding her is no easy task. I doubt I'll be able to satisfy your curiosity," Jaime warned.

Tyrion shrugged. "My curiosity is never satisfied, and yet I never stop trying to sate it. It's my greatest curse."

His brother gave him a dubious look. "You have half a nose, you were betrayed by your father, and you were born a dwarf. But your inability to satisfy your curiosity is your greatest curse?"

Tyrion smirked. "Being a dwarf hasn't gotten me into nearly as many scrapes as my curiosity, and neither has having a terrible father."

Jaime nodded. "Fair point."

"So, your girl? Her… contradictions?"

The golden knight laughed darkly. "I'm not sure which would irritate her more, being referred to as a girl or having you label her mine."

"So, image is important to her," Tyrion observed.

"No. Not exactly. It's more being underestimated that triggers her ire."

"Ah. Well, that is something we have in common." He gave Jaime a little half-smile, and the lift of his brow communicated his desire for him to continue.

"At times, she's as blank and unreadable as a block of marble awaiting the sculptor's chisel, and at others, so open and eager and… and so damn trusting that it breaks my heart."

"She lost her father young. She is likely wounded and wary because of that, but also seeking what she believes he would've given her, had he lived," the dwarf mused. "Guidance. Protection. Approval. Where she finds it, she will likely hold with all her strength."

The golden knight cocked one eyebrow. "I had no idea you were such an authority on fatherless children."

Tyrion shrugged. "It's another thing she and I have in common."

Jaime drew back. "You didn't lose your father, you killed him. And you were a man grown when you did."

"No," his brother said, shaking his head, the ashen strands of his hair waving gently with the movement, "I lost my father the day I was born, and he saw what I was." He looked at the knight, gauging his reaction, then asked, "Do you hate me for what I did?"

Jaime looked suddenly weary as he pondered the question. For a long moment, he stared out of the window next to the hearth, his eyes unfocused. Finally, he straightened in his seat and caught Tyrion's eyes with his own, holding his gaze. "I made my peace with it, and with you, a long time ago. I have little room for judgement with the life I've led. I don't hate you, Tyrion."

The dwarf nodded, the corner of his eyes squinting with some emotion he tried to suppress, and his gaze dropped to his own lap. "And your young queen, does she have room for judgement?"

The golden knight smirked. "I think Old Walder's fate is answer enough, don't you?"

"I heard about Hosteen Frey as well."

"That girl has a shocking capacity for hatred and an appetite for vengeance that would put even our father's to shame."

"Then how is it you serve her so willingly?" Tyrion asked, perplexed.

"Because her loyalty is endless and what seems to drive her, in every moment, is doing what is right for those to whom she feels she owes that loyalty." Jaime sat back in his seat. "Besides, her capacity for mercy is at least as great as her capacity for hatred."

"Is that so?"

"If it weren't, I would not be here to speak of it with you."

Tyrion cocked his head to one side, mismatched eyes brightening with a realization. "You care for her. Really care." He gave a small laugh. "I never thought you could care for anyone but Cersei."

"What are you talking about? I cared for you. You're my brother. I care for you still."

"Of course, yes, but it's different, isn't it? It's always been different."

Jaime breathed in, head tilting back so he could stare at the ceiling while he gathered his thoughts. "Maybe. Maybe it was. Cersei was always…" He looked at his brother and shook his head. "No matter. But Tyrion, you should know, I have always cared for you."

Tyrion smiled. "It's good to see you again."

"Yes," the knight agreed. "Against all odds."

"It was a strange and circuitous path to your doorstep."

"I look forward to hearing all about it."

"Just as I look forward to learning how Tywin Lannister's perfect son came to be in service to a Stark in the first place. And named Lord Commander by her, no less."

"It's not such a mystery, is it? After so many years spent slogging through politics and war and utter shit, sometimes the only way to keep from drowning in it is to look for one pure thing, no matter how small, and, if you find it, to cleave to it."

Tyrion laughed. "Purity? That's what inspires you?"

"Safeguarding it, yes."

"And in the entirety of the realm, the place you found this purity was within Ned Stark's forgotten daughter?"

"Forgotten?" Jaime chuckled. "I'd wager she'll be remembered now."

His brother shook his head. "Didn't you almost kill her father? How is this even possible?"

Jaime shrugged. "We live in strange times, brother."

"We do, indeed," Tyrion nodded.

"How about you, then? Why did you choose to serve Rhaegar's son, of all people?"

The dwarf mulled the question a moment. "Circumstance put me at his mercy, and my loyalty and my wits were all I had to offer in exchange for clemency."

"You advise Aegon Targaryen to preserve your skin?"

"No. I joined with him to save my skin. I advise him now because I believe in him."

The golden knight chuckled. "You've always loved the idea of dragons."

"I have, but that's not what draws me to him." Jaime looked at his brother skeptically. "No, really," Tyrion insisted. "Think what you will of Jon Connington, but he has reared the boy from near his infancy to take his place on the Iron Throne. Aegon cut his teeth on strategy, diplomacy, history. His bedtime stories were tales of duty and legacy. He was bred to be king."

"So, he's an entitled cunt."

The dwarf frowned. "It would be easy to judge him as such, I suppose, except that he isn't. Living in exile, doing what must be done to survive there, tends to bleed the entitlement out of a man. I know that firsthand."

"So, my girl is beloved by her people, fierce, loyal, and as close to selfless as any woman I've ever known, and your boy is a paragon of all kingly virtues," Jaime observed wryly.

"It would seem they are perfectly matched."

"Yet they are destined to be in conflict with one another. How can this end, other than tragedy?"

Tyrion's brow lowered and he murmured, "You know how, brother. Has not Lord Dayne already presented the suit?"

"She'll never agree to it, nor would her lords. They've only just gotten a taste of independence, and it has been good to them."

The dwarf was unconvinced. "The Riverlords have lived in relative peace these last few years. Surely, they would be loath to abandon it now for mere pride's sake. As for the North… well, they thrive on hardship, do they not? It's always felt as though they almost delight in… enduring." He snickered.

"You misjudge how much the Riverlands chafed under Joffrey's reign, and Tommen's. Setting the Freys up as wardens and leaving much of the control to Walder did the Iron Throne no favors. As for the North, now that they know a Stark lives, two Starks, in fact, they can do aught but support their claim, because what the North delights in, even more than enduring, is swearing fealty to a Stark. And that's in addition to the fact that Arya Stark is a just and capable ruler with shrewd bannermen. The trade routes negotiated by Lord Blackwood alone enrich the kingdom far beyond any reasonable expectation. Do you really think they'll give that up so easily?" Jaime scoffed, shaking his head. "Not while the land, and her people, flourish."

"And it could all be burnt to ash inside of a moon's turn. She'd be less than a footnote in the history of the realm, a rebel queen for only the briefest moment in time."

"So that's it? Marriage or death?" The Kingslayer's chuckle was bitter. "If you think that's a way to coax her, you don't know her very well."

"I imagine the king will express it to her more sweetly."

Jaime barked a genuine laugh at that. "And if you think sweet will sway her, then you know nothing of her at all!"

"Then perhaps we will have to trust in the wisdom of her advisors to help her see reason," Tyrion replied, looking pointedly at the knight.

"Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be the one to change her mind. She trusts no one above Jon Snow. Did you not hear him? He's ready to put Aegon and his Hand to the sword for her sake. And need I remind you, she personally removed the head of the last man who tried to claim her as wife?"

"It's early yet, brother, and Aegon is charming and handsome. And unlike Ramsay Bolton, he came to Winterfell as an invited guest, not as a foe who sacked the castle, torturing and executing her people."

"No, he hasn't tortured or executed anyone. Yet."

"And I shall endeavor to advise my king he should avoid such a course. Perhaps you will do the same with the queen? Or, at the very least, with Lord Snow?"

Jaime grunted his assent, then said, "But I won't be able to stay his hand if his sister has been injured in any way on this ridiculous adventure. We'd best go to the gates and see for ourselves." The two men rose and moved toward the door. As Jaime opened it, he paused, then said, "And Tyrion…"

"Yes, brother?"

"If he has harmed her, I'll kill him myself."


Arya and Aegon came stumbling down the hill after dismounting from Rhaegal's back, laughing at some joke or another one of them had made. The queen's hair was loose and tangled, settling around her face and shoulders like a dark cloud. But there was nothing dark or cloudy about her expression. Her face was alight with a rare joy, eyes dancing, and her posture was relaxed.

Gendry's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the sight.

The dark knight addressed the queen when she was within hearing. "Your grace, are you alright?"

At his tone, Arya's amused expression morphed into one of confusion. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"We didn't know where you'd gone," the knight replied somewhat sternly, then, shifting his hard gaze to her silver companion, added, "or what the king intended in taking you away."

"He intended to show me what it was to fly," the girl said simply. "As for where I went…" Here, Arya grinned at her sworn shield, excitement lighting her eyes once again, "oh, Gendry, we were above the clouds! You can't imagine it!"

"Your councilors were worried, your grace," he told her, his voice nearly as harsh as his glare at Aegon. "Your brother in particular."

The queen's brow creased. "Jon? But why?"

"Anything might've happened!" He said it as though she were foolish not to realize it. The declaration and the knight's tone dampened the king's cheerful demeanor.

"I assure you, ser, your queen was quite safe the entire time," Aegon said, straightening.

Gendry retorted, "You'll forgive me if have trouble believing that, owing to how she was set atop an unpredictable beast, unsecured, above the clouds, out of sight of the Winter Guard, for hours." He ticked off each observation as though he were reading a list of charges made against a criminal about to be executed.

"Oh, I'd say she was adequately secured," the king smirked, looking down at the girl. "Wouldn't you agree, your grace? You never felt unsafe, did you?"

Arya did not play into Aegon's goading of the dark knight. Instead, she softly assured her friend. "It was fine. Really."

Taking her lead, the king mastered his smirk and managed a more conciliatory expression when he said, "I would not have allowed her to come to any harm, ser."

"I am her sworn shield. Protecting the queen is my duty, not yours!"

"Ser Gendry," Lady Brienne said in a clipped tone. There was a warning in her words.

The knight breathed in, his jaw working. Finally, he said, "You may explain it all to Lord Snow. He's waiting for you." With one last glare at the dragon king, he bowed to Arya then turned on his heel and mounted his horse.


When the errant monarchs entered the gates of the castle, Jon Connington was taken aback by the sight of them. The pretender queen rode between two men, one dark and stormy, one bright and silvery as the moon on a clear night. The old griffin barely stopped himself from gasping aloud.

The dark man was a bastard, he'd heard it said, without even an acknowledged bastard's surname to hint at his origins, but no matter. They were writ plain enough in his features. How had he not noticed this before?

Staring at the Stark girl between Aegon and the bastard knight, it felt to Jon as though he'd been transported back to the tourney at Harrenhal.

Aegon was every inch Rhaegar's son, his rightful heir, his form and complexion uncannily like his father's. There was no doubt the queen's shield was Robert Baratheon's by-blow, likely one of many, knowing the usurper's reputation. And then there was the Stark girl. Having observed her in the throne room during their presentation to the court, Jon had noted she was thinner than her aunt had been, and not quite as tall, but she had enough of Lyanna in her features that at this distance, with a Targaryen to her one side and what might as well be a Baratheon to the other, it would have been easy to believe Rickard Stark's lost daughter had been resurrected by some profane art.

The griffin suppressed a shiver at the thought. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the tableau further. He found even their expressions were reminiscent of their forbears at the tourney. The girl was a little worried, chewing her lip. Aegon looked self-assured and regal. And the bastard, he looked almost murderous.

The look gave him a chill. Aegon was a skilled fighter, but so, too, had Rhaegar been. It had not saved him on the Trident. He must warn the boy. Jealousy was a powerful and insidious force. It had fueled the famous Baratheon temper all those years ago and led to the tragic ending of a good man. Jon would not suffer such a fate to befall his son.

The Hand cleared his throat as the king dismounted. "Welcome back, your grace. I trust you are well?"

"Never better, my lord," Aegon replied, moving to join the man. "Riding Rhaegal is always invigorating."

"Invigorating," the young queen mused, drawing even with the king. Her sudden appearance at Aegon's side startled Lord Connington. He'd not heard or seen her approach. It was most unsettling. "I think that's the perfect word to describe it!"

To say she was disheveled would've been an understatement. But her cheeks were pink, and her eyes danced. Much as it pained Lord Connington to admit it, her windblown appearance did nothing to diminish how pretty she looked. Like her aunt in that way, as well. The thought only deepened his scowl.

"I am pleased to hear it," the Hand said, sounding anything but pleased. His gaze locked with Aegon's. "We had worried, your grace, that some calamity might've befallen you."

"Did you really?" The king sounded bemused.

Arya chuckled. "Were you concerned I would shove him from the dragon's back when we were high above the clouds? But then how would I ever find the ground again? I know nothing of flying a dragon! I'd never be so short sighted."

Lord Connington could not tell if the girl meant to tweak him over his suspicions, or merely tease the king. Perhaps it was both.

"You wound me, your grace." Aegon gave the girl a false pout, making his Hand uneasy with his overfamiliarity. "All this time, I thought you enjoyed my company, but now I see you were only using me for my prowess at dragon handling!"

The girl smiled. "Cannot both be true?" Her tone carried a taunting sort of sweetness and she shrugged with feigned innocence.

Her familiarity made Lord Connington even more uneasy. What had happened on their thrice-damned dragon flight?

If the griffin thought the bastard knight's expression before was concerning, it was nothing compared to the one that shaped his features at the queen's reply. Jon's eyes flicked to Ser Rolly who noted the dark knight's demeanor as well and stepped closer to his king.

Aegon shrugged. "I suppose," he said the Arya. "But honestly, even if you'd wanted me to plunge to my death, you could not achieve your dastardly scheme without risking yourself. Not with how well you were secured in my arms."

The girl blushed a little at his words and though the king only had eyes for her as he spoke them, the bastard knight's reaction made it obvious that they'd been meant for him.

Anger sparked in his deep blue eyes, and he took a step toward the king. The Hand stiffened at the sight, then moved to put himself between Aegon and the man. Before the situation could escalate to violence, however, Lord Snow spoke, his tone arresting everyone present.

"Arya," he said simply. His voice was deep when he spoke, and he sounded most serious.

The queen looked chastened, and she moved away from Aegon and toward her brother. "I never meant to worry you, Jon. I'm fine, really. And it was…" She sighed. "I don't have the words." She looked up at him, her silver eyes pleading for understanding.

"You can try to find the words as I walk you to your chamber. You need to ready yourself for supper," Lord Snow reminded her. It was clear he was unhappy with the situation, and yet, he was still gentle with her. This surprised Lord Connington nearly as much as it annoyed him. The girl obviously needed to be taken in hand. Did none of her advisors ever hold her accountable? Perhaps if they had, she wouldn't be such a little menace.

"I would be happy to escort the queen," Aegon offered with a smile, all charm and elegance. He began moving closer to her and her brother.

All the gentleness drained from Jon Snow's eyes, and he turned to face the king. "No, your grace, I think you've done enough today." His tone brooked no objection. Aegon's smile faltered and his step halted.

The girl drew up to her full height, slight as it was, squaring her shoulders and holding her chin at a practiced, haughty angle. When she spoke, her diction was more formal than it had been only moments before. "Thank you for a most diverting afternoon, your grace," she said to the king. "I see that my brother has things he must tell me in confidence. The business of the kingdom never ceases." Her tone softened a bit. "But I will see you at supper."

With that, she turned to Lord Snow, taking his proffered arm, and left with him, moving toward the great keep. Her Winter Guard and Robert's surly bastard trailed behind the pair. Jon Connington watched it all, mouth set in a grim line as grooms bustled about the yard, leading the horses back to the stable. It wasn't the girl's departure that troubled him just then, but the way the king looked after her, a small, almost hidden smile on his lips, his eyes narrowing hungrily.

He'd seen that look once before, at that cursed tourney so many years ago, and nothing good had come of it.


"Sinelvargg!" Rickon cried as Arya and Jon entered the keep. "Flamonvargg!" He stood with Young Brax, and they looked as though they were just leaving, wrapped in their cloaks as they were, so near to the doors. The squire bowed to his queen.

"Where are you two headed?" Jon asked, suspicious.

The boys looked at one another and quickly muttered an exchange in the old tongue, their voices low. "The godswood," Rickon finally answered. Osha came huffing around the corner just then.

"Aye," she said sternly. "To the godswood and nowhere else." The wildling woman looked at the queen and her castellan. "I'll go with them to be sure."

The boys' faces puckered in disappointment, solidifying Jon's mistrust of his little brother's assertion. The godswood, was it? Osha crossed her arms over her chest and gave the lads a censuring look.

"Rickon, you are not to go near those dragons alone, do you hear me?" Jon commanded in his sternest tone. "Not today. Not ever."

"I wouldn't be alone!" the boy argued, jerking his head at his companion to indicate who he thought would make a fit chaperone for such an outing.

"Allow me to correct myself," the castellan said. "You are not to approach the dragons at all. Not without my express permission or that of your queen. Am I understood?" The young magnar crossed his arms over his chest and jutted his chin out in defiance, but a slight twist of his ear from Osha wrought from him a reluctant nod of agreement. Satisfied, Jon said, "Now, run along to the godswood. Perhaps you may pray for forgiveness for trying to deceive your sister and me."

The boy's face screwed up into an expression of disgust and he glanced at Young Brax before looking up at Arya. "Tell him, Sinelvargg," he pled. "The dragons didn't harm me, and they didn't harm you."

Arya shook her head. "I agree with him, Rickon. We were both with Aegon when we flew, and he is bonded to Rhaegal. I don't know what a dragon would do to you and Young Brax if you approached alone."

"I'm not afraid," the little chieftain muttered.

"That is exactly what a green boy would say," Jon scolded.

Rickon glared at his brother. "I'm not a green boy," he insisted. "I'm a magnar!"

"Then you should behave as one," Jon suggested, bending to look the boy in his Tully blue eyes. "A magnar thinks strategically and does not rush headlong into danger for the mere thrill or glory of it." After a moment, the castellan ruffled his brother's auburn hair and straightened. Rickon's expression was slightly less sulky after that, and he gave Young Brax a resigned sigh.

"Come, boys," Osha said, gripping them both by the shoulder firmly and steering them out of the doors into the yard. "Let's get you to the godswood. You can run these reckless impulses out of your minds by chasing the direwolves." And with that, they were gone. Jon watched them leave, shaking his head.

"All he talked about after you'd gone was dragons," the castellan said. "From the time you left the great hall until the council was convened." They walked toward the stairs to began their ascent.

"Why did you convene the council?"

"I was left with little choice when Ser Jaime came back to the castle with a tale of you flying away on dragonback, without a word to anyone."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Was everyone really so distressed?"

"I thought Lord Connington might die of an apoplexy when he received word."

"Lord Connington does not like me."

"Well, we are even then, because I do not like his king."

This drew Arya up short. "You've only just met the man. What have you against Aegon?"

"Aside from the fact that he coaxed my sister onto dragonback…"

"He didn't coax me. I asked him to take me for a ride."

"…then abducted her and hid her away for hours…"

"It wasn't an abduction. Really, Jon, do you think anyone could force me to go away somewhere I did not wish to? And it was scarcely two hours, start to finish."

"…and left me to deal with the insults and insinuations of his advisors while I was worrying over my sister's well-being…"

"Insults and insinuations?" she scoffed. "Were any of them worse than what the princess had already said of us in front of the whole court?"

"No one but you could understand what she was saying," he reminded her. "The court would have been none the wiser if you'd chosen to stay silent. But no one was speaking High Valyrian when we gathered today."

"Was it really so bad?"

"Lord Umber and Ser Rolly nearly dueled in council chambers. Lord Connington essentially accused you of luring his king away so you might murder him, dispose of his body, and claim a tragic accident had befallen him…"

"What?" Arya laughed, incredulous.

"…while Ser Brynden hinted that Lord Tyrion had masterminded a scheme to hold you captive until you agreed to wed the king and unite the seven kingdoms as one realm again."

She rolled her eyes. "He never even mentioned the marriage contract, Jon. It really was just a carefree afternoon, no different than riding through the wolfswood on horseback."

"Perhaps you see it that way. Perhaps even Aegon does, but the lords will wonder…"

They reached the top of the steps then moved down the corridor toward her chamber. "What, Jon?" the girl asked, sounding exasperated. "What will they wonder?"

He sighed. "Arya, a mere two nights stand between us and the celebration of your ten and seventh nameday. You are no longer a child, and cannot behave as a child, or think as a child. You are the queen, and everything you do now, everything, has consequences. Men will make their judgements on your every word, your every gesture, your every glance."

"Let them judge," she muttered bitterly.

Shaking his head, he said, "You need them as much as they need you. You cannot afford to estrange yourself from your bannermen. Not if you wish to hold the kingdom together."

They pushed through her chamber door, finding Rosie already there, readying her bath. The girl turned to Jon.

"And what judgement have you made, brother?"

He looked down at her, his eyes softening as he studied her face and then held her silvered gaze for a moment. His own brows pinched in, almost as if he were pained, and he leaned down, slipping his scarred hand behind her head, and cradling it as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"That you are too good for the likes of Aegon Targaryen, little sister," he murmured against her hair. "That you are too good for any man."

His words caused a lump to form in her throat and she pulled back to look up at him, trapping her bottom lip between her teeth and worrying it absently. He smiled at the sight, his look tinged with sadness, then left his sister so that Rosie could ready her for the supper.


In the great hall that night, the court and their guests were offered simple but hearty fare, fitting for a cold Northern eve. There was no music (Gaelon suspected they were saving the more splendid entertainments for the nameday feast, so that it would look far grander by comparison) but there was plenty of japing and conversation to be had. Bursts of laughter rang out here and there, scattered among the trestle tables.

The assassin's gemstone eyes travelled the hall, noting who spoke to whom, their postures, gestures, and expressions. The little wolf sat at the head table, laughing with Tyto's silver dragon, but that was no surprise. It was as it should be, the inevitable result of years of schemes, plans, missions, and careful manipulations. What was more surprising was the earnest conversation the queen's bastard brother seemed to be having with the mother of dragons.

Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen?

He'd seen them earlier, too, walking toward the godswood together, the white direwolf and Unsullied captain following in their wake.

The handsome man's eyes narrowed. He wondered if his master could have anticipated such an outcome. He supposed anything that strengthened the ties between north and south, anything that encouraged the mending of the rift between the two, would further the aims of the order. But it would not do if it absolved the little wolf of the need to marry her own dragon. Though the coffers of the House of Black and White brimmed with gold from Pentos, gold alone would not be enough for his master. If Westeros somehow became once again the land of the seven kingdoms, satisfying its king and his advisors, without a union between Arya and Aegon to secure the outcome, then Tyto Arturis would not receive the payment he desired most.

The marriage must take place. It must be consummated.

Gaelon supposed the worry was far-flung. The principal elder had yet to misstep.

He watched the unlikely pair further, the bastard from the Wall and the khaleesi; watched as grey eyes so like Arya's gazed intently into amethyst. They sat next to one another, to the queen's right, separated from the little wolf by the king. They were angled slightly toward one another, it was true, and the way Daenerys' purple eyes stared unwaveringly back at Jon hinted at some degree of fascination, but it was, after all, merely a conversation. The handsome man assured himself that it was certainly nothing powerful enough to stitch a kingdom back together. Not by itself.

The dragon king would not settle for less than he'd been promised, and the girl would be made to understand. She must be. She had no choice. Tyto had proclaimed it, powerful men in Pentos and Westeros had purchased it, and he had protected the plan with his every step.

The assassin allowed his gaze to drift to the lower tables on the side of the aisle opposite from where he sat. Daario Naharis was situated there, and he seemed to be enjoying provoking Brynden Blackwood. Both men occasionally glanced at the head table, but Galeon took it as a good sign that the Stormcrow captain's eyes did not linger on the little wolf.

The same could not be said of Ser Brynden's, but that was of no matter to him, or the order.

"Did you get that in the training yard?"

The false-Skagosi turned his head to face the one who'd spoken. His apprentice sat across the table from him, next to the large Lyseni that was his brother. The Westerosi assassin was gesturing toward his bandaged hand. Gaelon frowned.

"No," he answered simply, his Skagosi accent making the word a deep and rumbling nhah.

The false squire did not press him, but the boy's brow wrinkled in a way that irritated his master. Giving him the scowl that Augen Heldere was known for, he turned away to watch the head table once again. This time, he found the little wolf was engaged in conversation with the Lord of Starfall, who sat to her left. The young lord was smiling down at the girl as she touched his arm with the fingers of one hand while gesturing out over the assemblage with the other. Aegon looked on, his lips curled in a way that made him appear mildly amused at first glance. Further study, however, revealed a hardness in his eyes that Edric Dayne should've taken as a warning.

Jealousy? So soon?

Gaelon wondered what the king and queen had discussed during their afternoon adventure that could've conjured such feelings already. His eyes narrowed at the thought, old resentments stirring.

Jaqen. Tyto. And now the Targaryen king. Was there any man of importance in the whole of the world who could resist indulging the little wolf?

The assassin's jaw worked, and he glanced back toward Daario. The man was showing the young magnar his stiletto, watching as the boy took hold of the golden grip, stood up in his seat, and slashed at the air over the heads of those with whom he dined. The queen's squire clapped excitedly, egging the wild Stark boy on while the sellsword laughed. Daario did not seem bothered in the least by the behavior of either woman at the head table. Neither the one he had been sent to distract with promises of love, nor the one whose love had inspired him to betray his brother, his master, and his god.

The spell was sound. It would hold.

For now.


"…and all around, there will be candles, a thousand of them, maybe more, and they will hang the banners of all the houses in attendance," the queen was saying to Edric, "so that they cover every wall with color and splendor. So much splendor, in fact, you're like to wonder who is worth such effort and expense."

The Lord of Starfall was only making polite conversation when he asked about the preparations for the nameday feast, she knew, but she couldn't help her irreverence. No matter how many days had passed since her coronation, the girl grew no more comfortable with such extravagant fusses being made over her. She'd adjusted to being called 'your grace,' probably as much as she was ever like to, and she'd accepted her duties, was even driven to fulfill them, but in the more opulent and ostentatious parts of sitting a throne, she found no joy.

She and Jon had argued about it numerous times. He'd insisted the celebration was not a waste, but was, rather, a political necessity. It was, he'd said, both a reward for loyal lords and knights, and a show of wealth and strength to cement the reputation of their fledgling kingdom into the collective imagination of her subjects and the wider world. Of course, she'd relented. His case was too sound, and he had the entire council on his side.

"Besides," he'd added softly, "I've missed every nameday since you were nine. I want to make up for lost time." His expression when he'd spoken had been so sad, so pleading, that it made her feel like a selfish fool for ever arguing with him over it in the first place.

"Nonsense," Edric replied with a fond look. "You're the queen. If you're not worthy of such effort and expense, no one is. And especially for your first nameday back on Westerosi soil, nothing could be too grand."

"Nothing? Hmm…" Arya gave him a mischievous look. "What if I wanted five hundred roast pheasants?"

"Then a hunting party of the best bowman would be organized to bring them to you."

"And what if I wanted an escort of twelve snow white mares for my morning ride?"

He gave her a look that said she wasn't even trying to challenge him. "It would simply be a matter of inspecting every stable between the Trident and the Wall until suitable horseflesh could be found."

The girl's look became more devious. "Well, what if… what if I wanted to ride an elephant through the gates of Winterfell?"

Edric's answering chuckle was interrupted by the king.

"Then, your grace, you would have to wait until such a creature could be fetched from Dorne."

Arya turned to face Aegon then. "Dorne?"

The silver king nodded. "We brought elephants with us over the sea. They were tokens of the triarchs' support of our cause. After King's Landing fell to us, they were sent back to Dorne where the climate is more suited to them."

"You've seen an elephant," she whispered hotly, eyes widening.

"Seen. Ridden." Aegon leaned closer to her. "Their tusks, if you could straighten them, would measure more than the length of this table, and their hides are nearly as tough as dragon scales."

She grinned at him. "A wondrous creature indeed. I should like to see one myself."

"Perhaps you'll accompany me to Dorne someday, and I'll show you our herd."

"Dorne," she mused, sounding faraway. "I could ride a sand steed, too."

"Only if you agreed not to race."

This took her aback. "What? Why not?"

Aegon smiled. "Your skills on horseback, combined with the speed of a sand steed? It would hardly be fair, your grace."

"You're flattering me." She sounded almost cross as she said it.

"I know how you feel about flattery," he murmured, his lips very near her ear, "which is why you should know I am not playing you false. Do we not have a treaty regarding this very matter?"

Arya's expression indicated instant remorse. "We do," she replied softly.

"I'm glad you recall it." The king tilted his head. "Now, shall we talk more of elephants, or is there another subject which captures your fancy?"

"Tell me more of the places you visited in Essos. I want to hear your adventures."

"I will, if you will tell me of your life in Braavos."

The girl looked unsure for a moment, but then nodded, one corner of her mouth lifting in a charming little half-smile.

From that point until the queen was escorted by the Winter Guard back to her chamber for the night, Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name, commanded her full attention, leaving poor Edric Dayne to converse for the rest of the evening with Lord Umber and Jon Connington.


"Good morrow, Lord Snow," the king greeted when he crossed paths with the castellan in the training yard.

"Your grace," Jon returned shortly. His northern brogue was a bit more pronounced this morning. Aegon had come to understand it was a mark of his ire.

Two nights had passed since his dragon ride with Arya, and her brother's icy reserve toward the man he blamed for it had yet to thaw. Aegon could tell the tension pained the queen, and it was proving detrimental to his efforts at moving his suit forward, so he'd resolved he would meet the issue head on today and do what he could to address the problem before the nameday feast. That only gave him until sunset.

"Hand and a half." The king nodded admiringly toward Jon's sword, then squinted at its length for a moment. His silver brows rose in surprise. "Valyrian steel?"

"Aye," the castellan said. "Longclaw."

"The ancestral blade of House Stark was divided," Aegon said in confusion, "and it is your sister who wields what was shaped from it." Had there been a third blade forged, one that was not referenced in Lord Hoster's work? But that couldn't be right. No matter how large Ice had been, it could not have yielded enough steel for Grey Daughter, Frost, and Longclaw. Not with the belt of wicked throwing blades Arya had shown him yesterday as well.

"Longclaw did not come from Ice. This sword was given to me by Lord Commander Mormont before he died."

"Mormont?" The king gazed off, sorting through his histories for a moment before it struck him. "When you were at the Wall…" A look of understanding crossed the king's face, and he stepped closer to Jon, studying the weapon more closely. "A lavish gift indeed. Your Lord Commander must have valued your service greatly. May I?"

Without a word and with only the smallest hesitation, Jon handed the blade to Aegon. The king tested its balance, making an appreciative noise low in his throat, then held it forth, glancing down the line of the sword's edge. He smiled and handed the weapon back, commenting, "I assume it was Lord Mormont who replaced the pommel."

"Yes. The original was carved in the shape of a bear's head. Silver. It… was ruined in a fire. Melted."

"A fire?" He glanced at the scars on Jon's hand. A shrewd look colored the king's expression as he pieced the tale together for himself. Slow and knowing, he said, "You saved your Lord Commander from a fire, injuring yourself and earning his gratitude. In turn, he rewarded you with his family's sword."

Jon shook his head, a grim look passing over his features. "I started the fire, burning the sword, and myself, in the process."

Aegon straightened, brows knitting in bewilderment and expectation, but the castellan did not provide further detail to clarify the story. The two men simply regarded each other in silence.

That silence did not last long, however, interrupted as it was by braying laughter.

"Har!" a barrel-chested man half barked, half choked out. "Har har!" His attire, an odd patchwork of furs and hides from various animals, stitched together without rhyme or reason, marked him as one of the free folk from beyond the Wall. He'd been sparring with the queen's brother when Aegon had entered the yard moments before. He jerked his head toward Jon Snow. "This kneeler would rather you believe him the villain of the story than tell the truth of it and have you know him for the hero he is." He snorted, the sound as indelicate as anything the king could imagine. "Southrons…"

"Tormund," Jon growled, giving the red-headed fellow a look so cold, it could turn a beating heart into a solid chunk of ice.

"Probably thinks it makes him sound more interesting," the wildling man continued, ignoring the castellan. "That, and I imagine he wants you to wonder what he's capable of, so you step carefully around his sister."

"Tormund," Jon repeated through gritted teeth.

"What?" the wildling said, truly surprised by his companion's objection. "It's a good story, Snow, and one more likely to scare off unworthy suitors than letting 'em believe you tried to burn your crow commander in his sleep."

Aegon watched the men in fascination. Their interactions reminded him a little of the way he and Duck sometimes spoke to one another when there were few around to witness it. To cover his smile at the thought, he said, "It's a tale I'd like to hear, Lord Snow. Your sister has not told me much of your time at the Wall."

"Are you sure, dragon king?" Tormund answered for his friend. "It's a dark story, full of the unexplainable, and it's like to disturb your dreams for a solid year just for the telling. You'll be so chilled at hearing it, even your indecent fantasies of the Snow's queen won't be enough to warm you in your sleeping furs."

"Tormund!" Jon shouted at the same time Aegon balked, thrusting his hand to where his sword rested at his hip, fingers tightening around the hilt. The castellan's eyes shot to the king with the movement, his gaze homing in on the weapon and the silver man's stance. "Tormund," he said again, this time slower and very calmly, "why don't you go break your fast while the king and I finish our conversation?"

The wildling man chuckled, shrugging, and saying, "Alright, Lord Snow. I'll leave you kneelers to converse." He lumbered away, toward the great hall, laughing all the while.

"You tolerate such disrespect to your queen?" the silver man asked stiffly when the wildling was gone. His mouth curled with his displeasure.

The castellan sighed. "I only tolerate it because Arya does. She and Tormund are great friends. They… seem to amuse one another."

"Is that so?"

"I honestly think they have a secret pact to say the most outrageous things they can think of, with the sole purpose of annoying me."

Aegon relaxed, chuckling lightly. "I suppose if your sister tolerates his bawdy japing, I must as well."

Jon nodded. "He means no harm, and he respects her deeply." He laughed a little himself, an action that the king had come to realize was relatively rare. "She made sure of it." Though Aegon was once again tranquil and no longer gripped his sword hilt, his hand still rested on the pommel, drawing Jon's gaze. His head canted and he studied what he could see of the weapon. "You wield a bastard sword as well?"

The corners of the king's eyes crinkled, and he pulled his sword from its scabbard, turning the blade level with the ground and resting it across his palms. Glancing first at the darkly gleaming steel then back up at Jon, he pushed his arms forward slightly, offering the blade to him. The castellan sheathed Longclaw and stepped closer, his posture mirroring Aegon's as he held his hands forth, palms up, and allowed the king to place the weapon there.

"Valyrian," Jon murmured as his eyes drank in the blade, tracing the smoky swirls of the steel from its sharp tip to the crossguard. It would've taken a hundred of the garnets which made up the eyes of Longclaw's wolf head pommel to equal the one great ruby which was embedded at the junction of the crossguard and the hilt of the king's weapon. The gem glittered brightly under the morning sun, and the castellan stepped back, giving himself clear space before he gripped the sword by its hilt and gave a few broad test swings.

"Exceptional balance," Jon remarked. "Different than Longclaw, though."

"The difference in the fullers, I imagine."

"Where did you come by it?"

Aegon accepted the blade back as Jon handed it to him and replaced it in its scabbard. "In Essos. The Golden Company had been safekeeping it."

Brow wrinkling, Jon asked, "Why would a sellsword company relinquish such a rare and valuable weapon?"

The king smiled. "Because it is rightfully mine." He, too, could withhold detail and context.

But the castellan's resultant guess proved more correct than Aegon's had been. "Blackfyre?" he asked hoarsely, looking again at the sword at the king's hip. "After all this time?"

"You know your history," the king smiled, impressed.

"I may be a bastard, but I was afforded the same education as my trueborn brothers." The northern brogue was back.

The king swallowed. "I… didn't mean…"

"Bittersteel took the sword to Essos, but it was lost," Jon continued, eyes narrowing a bit. Aegon imagined he was weighing the king's contrite tone and deciding how sour he should continue to be.

"Not lost, as it turns out," the king replied softly.

The castellan scrutinized Aegon's expression for a moment, his own face implacable, and then inquired, "Do you train with it?"

"Of course. How else to wield it expertly?"

Jon nodded. "I suppose you came here this morning for more than talk."

He hadn't, but Aegon did not plan to give up any opportunity to interact further with the queen's brother.

"I did interrupt your training with your wildling friend," he pointed out. "I'd be happy to take his place."

"Your grace," Ser Rolly called from the edge of the yard. "Perhaps training blades…"

"Nonsense, ser," the king called back. "Valyrian steel wants to breathe. It would be a sin to have two such blades in the same yard and not cross them. Wouldn't you agree, Lord Snow?"

"I would," the man answered, drawing Longclaw. As he watched, Aegon drew Blackfyre and they each paced to an appropriate spot from which to begin dueling. The men faced each other as Duck made one more plea.

"Your grace, the risk of an… errant cut…"

No doubt he was dwelling on the threat the queen's brother had made a few days before in council chambers. Jon Connington had raved about it enough that none in the king's retinue was like to forget it. Still, Aegon had no reason to believe Jon Snow would harm him now. His sister had returned without injury, after all, and she herself had defended him without hesitation before all the lords, knights, and her brother. No, the castellan was a man of honor and would not harm him.

The king reassured his knight. "I believe Lord Snow is a talented enough swordsman to avoid errant cuts. Is that not so, Lord Snow?"

"Only one way to find out, your grace," Jon retorted.

Aegon's answering grin was genuine and broad. "Then, let's find out."

A ghost of a smile played on the castellan's lips just before he swung his bastard blade in lightning quick blow.


Howland Reed watches the fight from a shadowed corner of the second story gallery overlooking the training yard below. The men he studies are well-matched, in size, strength, and skill. In many ways, it is like watching one man fight his own reflection in a mirror. Each blow is met with equal ferocity, each cut avoided with equal agility.

None of it is surprising. Howland has seen it all before, painted in green and softened by sleep.

Watching the contest unfold before him here, in the daylight, has a different feel to it, though. The men are two sides of a coin, one dark and one bright, obverse and reverse.

The hidden and the exposed.

For the thousandth time, something pricks sharply at his conscience, and he longs to tell the queen; to tell her brother.

No, not her brother. Not hers. He is something else entirely.

The wide world around him shrinks, pressing in against his throat, his ribs, making it a chore to breathe. The truth has a weight which seems to grow with each passing hour, making it harder to hold, and he longs to set it down; to pass it on for another to hold.

But he understands that he cannot afford the luxury of his own scruples. There is something greater at stake than reputation and loyalty, something more important than his own comfort, and though he owes the queen his fidelity, he cannot rank it higher than her own security or the stability of the kingdom.

He has tried, more than once, to reveal the truth to her. And each time, a darkness has filled his mind and produced in him such dread, he has been unable to give voice to his insight. That same darkness has filled his dreams on the nights following his attempts, turning the green to black and saturating his thoughts with such a dense and shapeless fear that he would awaken to find himself swathed in soaked sheets, with only death on his mind.

Howland has spent more hours than he can count in the godswood, kneeling at the foot of the weirwood tree, begging the gods to help him understand. His discernment remains clouded, however, and he cannot even say if the dreamed warnings derive from the gods, or the children of the forest, or some power yet undiscovered.

All he knows for certain is that it is his deepest desire to reveal all to the queen, and it is his sacred duty not to. Though he cannot fathom the why of it, this remains his indisputable reality.

The secret he has carried for years, from the sands of Dorne to the murky waters surrounding Greywater Watch to this very spot within the walls of Winterfell, he must hold a little longer.

The crannogman listens to the clash of Valyrian steel, watching the dragons dance. His heart sits heavy in his chest, for he alone knows the men to be rivals in the way only brothers can be.


Breathe Again—Joy Oladokun